


you'll fall like a guillotine

by blackkat



Series: Horoscope Drabbles [20]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Necromancy, Resurrection, Unhealthy Relationships, at least on Sasori's part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 13:51:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17285288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Like a thief, Sasori steals between the weathered statues, over the ruins of the once-great palace. The air is light, full of birdsong, and he’s come to steal away something far more valuable than gold.





	you'll fall like a guillotine

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Normal Horoscopes on Tumblr:
> 
> Leo: The courtyard of a long dead philosopher king. Marble statues in dramatic poses, missing limbs and finer features. Wildflowers reach towards their ankles. All encircled by the remains of a palace, only the foundations are left.

Like a thief, Sasori steals between the weathered statues, over the ruins of the once-great palace. The air is light, full of birdsong, and he’s come to steal away something far more valuable than gold.

The anticipation is a heat, an electrical current in his chest even though he’d thought himself long past such things. Had he an ounce less control, Sasori thinks his fingers might be shaking, and each breath is harsh despite the ease of the walk. This was not a court made for defenses, for walls and armies and weapons; the path meanders between groves of trees, the faded skeleton of an old garden now little more than a stretch of forest.

Past the trees, past the thick wood, the audience hall has become a meadow. The statues grow throughout it, once lovely, now disfigured. Sasori only barely bothers to glance at them as he passes; victims of time and weather, all of them, and Sasori might feel pity if he weren’t so disgusted.

Shifting earth has turned the flight of stairs that once edged the dais into a hill, and there's no evidence of the throne that once sat atop it. A sarcophagus rests there instead, homage to the greatest king this land knew. A homage to his passing, and the way his kingdom fell in its wake, the ruin that came in his aftermath. White marble, inlaid with gold, and Sasori sets his hand against the surface, breathing out.

So close, so _close_.

“I will free you,” he says, and his voice is a foreign thing here, where no voices have spoken in a thousand years. It satisfies him to hear the sudden rush of birds going quiet, startled by the sound, and how the words reverberate off sun-warmed marble.

There are wildflowers growing around the tomb, twining up the stone, and they blacken in a spreading rush as Sasori calls up a twist of magic, so carefully prepared.

“Wake,” he says softly, lovingly, and digs his fingernails into the marble. The white stone shivers, and the veins of gold darken, tarnish. The day seems to grow darker, the summer air cooler, and beyond the normal sense of the world, Sasori can feel something vast and alien raise her head, sightless eyes finding him in the mortal world.

Death reaches out, follows his call. Her magic ripples through him and out, strings to catch a marionette, and the darkness _writhes_.

Sasori laughs. He sets his hand against the lid of the sarcophagus, pushes hard, and the heavy marble shifts as though it weighs nothing at all. It tumbles away, striking the ground and cracking with a thunderous sound, but Sasori hardly hears. He leans over the open casket, excitement electric in his chest, and reaches down to touch a pale cheek, perfect even after all these centuries, untouched by time.

If Sasori had ever doubted his quest, this would be enough to banish every hesitation.

The king is a beautiful man, just as the tales say. Time has left him that way, left him _perfect_ , as if he’s been waiting for this moment since his passing.

Death breathes, a cold gust of wind that withers the wildflowers, kills the grasses, and Sasori smiles. He pulls himself up, over the lip of the sarcophagus and into it, until he can kneel over the king’s body. There's warmth beneath his skin, life returning; Death can only rarely be convinced to surrender those in her grasp, but for Sasori she will. For Sasori she _has_. And of all the souls Sasori has stolen from her, this is the greatest, the grandest.

He presses a hand to the king’s fine robes, feels the stuttering heartbeat sliding into steadiness with each beat, and leans forward, cupping the king’s cheek with gentle fingers. A fine face, with dark hair and thin brows, a regal set. So wise, by all accounts. So powerful to singlehandedly keep his kingdom from slipping into madness during his reign. A philosopher-king, a thousand secrets in his soul, and Sasori has always loved too much and too little by turns, but—

This is devotion. This is adoration, burning fiercely, like poison in his chest.

He leans down, and Death demands a price even for things stolen away from her grasp, but Sasori has never been so happy to pay it. A breath, slow, deliberate, and the king’s skin is warm, his heart steady in its pace. It’s time.

Sasori fits their mouths together, and gives the king part of his own breath.

The cold wind howls, a last mournful lament for the stolen soul now permanently in life’s grasp. It washes over them, fades away, and suddenly there's a hand on Sasori’s back, sliding up into his hair. An arm around his shoulders, pulling him in, and the mouth under his is soft, careful, even as golden eyes flutter, slide open.

“My king,” Sasori says, breathless, _victorious_ , and the philosopher-king regards him for a long, endless moment before he raises his hand to touch the curve of Sasori’s smile.

“You are a wicked thing,” he says, but it’s kind, almost gentle, and Sasori laughs, success as heady as wine and kisses on his tongue.


End file.
